


swallowtail

by ghastly



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4081927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghastly/pseuds/ghastly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a witch you've heard about, a sorceress who offers help to whomever may need it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. larva

**Author's Note:**

> \- so ghastly are you gonna finish that one shot  
> \- hahahah yeah totes as soon as i get some free time  
> *shows up months later with an entirely different story*  
> \- well i mean

There's a witch you've heard about, a sorceress who offers help to whomever may need it. You've heard about her in whispers, snippets of conversations not connected enough to give you any sort of palpable insight: some claim you'll always find her by the water, modern naiad not truly bound to anything; others maintain that old buildings are where she lurks, especially ones with overgrown vines taking up the walls; there are even those who say she dwells in a meadow, set in a patch of sunlight only available at certain hours throughout the day. The one thing all whispers and rumors seem to agree on is that her prices are fair, if not always orthodox.

This is all you know about her. It only takes you a single glance to know you've found her, nevertheless.

You find her at the entrance of a house, sitting on her heels as she feeds some stray cats. You've never seen this house before. You've walked down this street nearly every day for the past ten years. She looks up at you, the corners of her lips curling up like smoke.

"I have been wondering how long it'd take you to find me, Miss Maryam. Would you like to come inside and discuss business?"

She doesn't exactly look like what you'd expect a witch to look like, though it could be argued that you'll need to rethink that considering she's the only one you've ever met - sundress and sandals, a golden nose ring, flower tattoos wrapping around her shoulders. It doesn't strike you as odd that she already knows who you are.

"I would like that very much, thank you."

Her grin turns a bit sharper as she nods you toward the gate. There's a large wisteria at the front lawn, still blooming beautifully in mid-August, and lavender bushes lined up against one of the sides of the house; there's also a wrought iron table and two wrought iron chairs in the middle of the petal-covered grass, stark black against the pale purple. You take a seat.

"Before we start, Miss Maryam, I would ask you one thing, if I may," she says as she pours you a cup of tea. You are certain there was nothing on the table when you first sat down.

"Yes, of course."

Her fingertips are as cold as the porcelain of the cup she hands you. Your own fingers twitch lightly to feel them again.

"What do you know of me?"

"Nothing, I think," you say. She looks amused.

"Well, I mean, nothing but what I've learned today, I'd reckon," you amend. She looks even more amused.

"It might be more productive if you just tell me what it is you want me to say," you conclude. She has the gall to laugh.

"Honestly, Miss Maryam, do I look like someone concerned with pragmatic, teleological values such as productivity? Still," she interrupts you before you can reply, or attempt to, at any rate, "I suppose I am being a rather discourteous host. I apologize."

She takes a sip of her tea. You do the same, mostly for lack of anything to say to that.

"However," and her eyes turn sharp again, pinning you like a moth, "you aren't being fully honest with me either. If you knew nothing of me, not only would you have no reason to come find me, you wouldn't even know it was an option. So," and she turns softer again, or as soft as a storm can get, "Miss Maryam, I'll ask again. What do you know of me?"

"I know that you're a witch. I guess. I mean, that's what I heard?"

"If you believe that I'm a witch, then that is what you know."

"Am I right, though?"

"That's a very subjective question. Are you asking if I agree with you?"

"Well, I suppose you'd be the one whose opinion matters most."

"And that's a very subjective opinion."

"Aren't all opinions subjective, though? Logically speaking, I mean."

"That would depend very much on your definition of logic."

How unnerving. Her mouth continues doing that smoke smile. Your throat feels rather dry.

"Then yes. In response to your question. The latest one, that is. Yes is my response to your latest question, I am asking if you agree with me. Well, of course, 'yes' couldn't very well be my response to your original question of what I know of you, after all - I mean, it _could_ , technically, but it wouldn't make any sense, objectively speaking, and this conversation already suffers from a tragic lack of sense as it is, so. Yes. Do you agree with me?"

The wind passes gently by the wisteria branches, layers upon layers of petals covering the grass. Not a single petal lands on the table.

"I find that I do. You are very agreeable, Miss Maryam."

"Kanaya."

"Kanaya," and she smiles. "I am in fact a witch. I am also called Rose, to answer the question you've been too polite to ask aloud."

Rose, you repeat quietly to yourself, Rose. Simple enough.

"So, Kanaya, what can I do for you today?"

You try to put into words the feeling of watching the sunrise after sleeping too much or not enough and wanting to be a sunflower. You try to think of words to convey your desire to be simple and careless and just follow light as it went. You try to translate into words your desire for a purpose, any purpose, any motive or motif.

No words come. It's tiring.

Still she nods, your silence having spoken for you when your voice could not, her chin upon the knuckles of her interlaced hands and her elbows upon the iron arms of the chair.

"I want to want something."

Oh, those would be the words. Admitting that doesn't feel as liberating as you had assumed it would.

"Come work with me," she says, startling you once with the sound of her voice and once again with her words, "for some time. See what other people want, and what they're willing to pay to get it. If you haven't found what it is that you want in yourself, maybe you'll find the answer in others."

You should ask what would working with her entail. You should ask how long is 'some time'. You should ask plenty of hows and whys and what ifs.

The whole air smells of lavender.

You say yes.


	2. pupa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Work fills the empty spaces of your day like sunlight

Work fills the empty spaces of your day like sunlight, effortless, the memory of the quiet warmth of it clinging to your chest throughout the day. You always meet her by the gate; she's always expecting you. She smiles, greets you, reaches a hand out. You lock arms. Her skin is cold against yours.

And you walk.

She takes you around town - never repeating paths, never entering buildings. There isn't much of a pattern as to where you end up, as far as you can tell: sometimes you walk for hours, the sky burning placidly in the oranges as purples of dusk as your feet hit the pavement; sometimes you could swear you can still smell lavender in the thick summer air with how close you are to the house. In any case, once you stop, you count one, two, three heartbeats, and someone approaches the Witch. Like clockwork, really.

* * *

On the first day you meet a boy, four foot nothing of freckles and brown eyes, holding a dead baby bird in his tiny hands more gentle and careful than you thought was possible. He asks very quietly if she can do anything for it, anything at all.

"You've already done all there was to be done for him," she says, crouching down to his eye level, "by caring for him as much as you do. Your kindness made his life better, especially when he needed it most."

The boy nods very gravely, even as tears run down his small face; her smile is warm.

"What we can do now is give his body back to nature, so that new things can be born from it. Maybe a flower you think he would have liked?"

"Cornflower," the answer comes promptly, like it had just been waiting for the question to invite it. "I was gonna name him Cornflower. Cause he looks kinda blue."

In the end, he buys a handful of cornflower seeds for the price of one pear, wrapped in paper towel by his mother.

* * *

On the second day you meet a woman, a very old woman with hair like a cloud. She asks for something to get her memories back, the old ones, from when her legs were strong and her posture was sure.

"I can't retrieve something you haven't lost," Rose replies, a gentle hand on the woman's arm. "Those memories are with you, as are all memories you've ever made."

"But I can't remember, dear, it's been too long. I want to remember."

She takes the woman's hands then, very gently, as one would treat a dear grandmother.

"You have many, many memories. It's a beautiful thing; it's a sign of a good life. It's also the reason you can't find what you're looking for: your mind is like a very long book, and you're searching for one specific paragraph inside it. What I could do," she takes a breath before continuing, "would be erase some of those other memories, so the search would become easier."

The woman is quiet for some time.

"I don't suppose I could choose which memories would go, could I?"

"Not fully, no."

She nods, as if expecting that. Her smile is still sad, but lighter than it had been at first, and she goes away without buying anything.

* * *

On the third day you meet a dog walker whose vitiligo makes their face look like a map. Their wish is to be less angry, less defensive at all times. To be calmer.

"Defensive isn't bad," she says as one of the dogs steps forward to sniff her hand. "Defensive is a response. You are not like this because it is in your nature to be so; you are like this because your environment has forced you to become so."

"Well, does it matter?"

"Everything matters. This, however, matters in particular. Natures can't easily be changed, but behaviors are relatively easy to unlearn, once one decides to do so."

She takes what looks like lip balm from the pocket of her skirt and extends it towards them.

"Lip balm?"

"A thousand kind words," she answers, "until your lips learn how to make them on their own. Apply it once every morning."

They pay with an old, worn braided leather bracelet and a skeptical look on their eyes. When you run into them a week later on your way back from the market, they wish you 'good morning' with an easy smile.

* * *

Rose invites you in for tea by the end of the first week. The house is as lilac and ethereal as it had been the first time, the wind through the wisteria branches as soothing, her hands as cold.

You aren't the same.

The heavy weightlessness in your chest still clings to your ribs, refusing to let go completely, but it isn't as all-encompassing as it once was. You think other thoughts now, of people that you've met, of stories that you've heard. You think of the continuity of nature and the inevitability of time. You think of change.

"I will listen to whatever you wish to share, Kanaya, but you will have to use your words."

You also think of smoke smiles and dancing eyes, but those are dangerous thoughts to have around someone this perceptive. Then again, you think as she raises one eyebrow at your reticence, maybe that perceptiveness also makes it pointless to worry about dangerous thoughts in the first place.

"This has been a very interesting week" is what you say instead. "And I mean that in the most literal way possible. It has been a very rewarding experience, and should that be an option, I would very much like to continue to pursue it."

"I'm glad to hear so," and it shows, too, in how her smiles grows warmer around the corners, "and it is very much an option. Your company has been rewarding for me as well, and it'd make me very happy to continue to experience it."

"I have been wondering about payment, though. Do I not owe you something at this point?"

"That would have been the case, had you wished to work with me." She drinks the rest of her tea and sighs as if satisfied. "As it is, I was the one who invited you, which makes you a guest."

"Oh. I suppose that makes sense."

"I often do."

"Debatable."

Her face looks younger when she laughs, pinker, warmer. She is still pink and warm as she walks you to the gate, her feet bare on the petal covered grass and her skin drenched in sunset.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

You want to press a kiss against her face, her sunset skin, her smoke smile. You take a step back and smile.

"Definitely."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chapter probably some time this week probably  
> also thank you everyone for the positive feedback! you guys are too good to me honestly


	3. imago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are a summer child through and through

You are a summer child through and through, born in a warm September night and raised in the sunlight - raised in the grass of your parents' backyard, dozing off in the late afternoon sun, happy and content and warm. Sunny days comfort you like little else, make your skin less tight and your lungs less dry, make a sunflower out of your heart.

Working for Rose is a lot like a sunny day.

You learn to read runes, palms, tea leaves and coffee stains. You learn which plants to place in each cardinal direction, both inside and outside the house, and how often to talk to each of them. You learn the best hours for each type of spell, the best weather, the best colors and materials.

(You also learn to be patient with yourself, though this happens somewhat vicariously, by learning to be patient with others first; understanding their dreams and fears and hopes gives your heart a broader frame of reference and inklings of validation.)

You teach her words in exchange, words from old poems in Hindi and even older poems in Sanskrit, from snippets of lullabies in French your godmother used to sing to you, from the one book in German you ever managed to read - The Neverending Story, which seems only apt.

(She also learns from you the candidness of your ways, the straightforwardness of your actions, the gentle warmth of your every thought, but you don't know that.)

She lets you into the house after one week, dark wood floors and dark wood furniture both grave and warm against the ethereal lightness of the white curtains blowing in a breeze that wasn't there. You remove your shoes at the threshold, uncertainly, and she laughs at you with fondness.

After the second week she shows you the library, guides you through tall shelves that seem to go on forever with her hand in your wrist and her smile just around the corner. The room is very bright. There are no lights or windows anywhere.

At the end of the third week she shows you her study, a tiny room covered pinned paintings and trinkets made of glass and gold, and you feel so touched by how much of herself she is willing to let you see that you hardly register anything else in the room. The way she smiles as she sees you off that day, warm and grateful, is all you'd have chosen to keep from this day at any rate.

When you complete one month of work, you ask to talk to her. She smiles, much like that first day out at the street, and nods you towards the iron wrought table.

"I have been wondering when we would have this conversation, Kanaya. Have you found your wish, then?"

"I have. Though I suspect you knew that already."

"I know many things," she says, stirring her tea, "but it is impossible to know it all."

You make a noise in what could be constructed in acquiescence, mostly to keep her talking.

"I'm grateful for that, in a way," and her smile burns a hole through your chest, "for I do so love to be surprised."

"If you were me for a day, I reckon it'd take you a few hours at most to grow quite tired of it."

You file her laughter in your memory, a piece of summer for when it gets colder.

"I've grown," you continue after her laughter subsides, "in the time I've worked here. I've grown more in this month than I feel I have in the past few years. I feel... motivated again, and I can't remember the last time I've felt motivation. That I can help others in this is a great and wonderful thing, but above all I feel working here has been good for me as a person. Even the bad times - because those still come, and I don't think I'll ever get rid of them fully - but even the bad times are easier now, not as endless and inescapable. I've grown, and I've learned, and I wish to continue doing so. I wish," you breathe, possibly for the first time since you began speaking, "I wish to continue working here. Permanently."

You file her sigh in your memory as well, finding it only fair to do so.

"I thought I had prepared myself for this, but it was still a bit more than I could handle."

You try to look at her in question, but her hands find one of yours in the table and you can't seem to take your eyes away from the way her cold fingers grip yours.

"I won't talk of the matter of permanence; you are free to leave as you please, should it ever be what you want, and you are as free to return whenever you so desire. But if what you want now is to be here every day, then that is what we'll do. Are you certain this is what you want?"

Your fingers grip hers back, bleeding warmth into them.

"It is all I'm certain of."

This smile, brighter and warmer than all your summers put together, you file in your memory as the precise instant in which you fell in love.

There's a witch you've heard about, a sorceress who offers help to whomever may need it. You've heard about her in whispers, snippets of conversations that did nothing to warn you of the impact she would make upon your life. She is said to wander in many places, but you know her best at home, smelling of lavender and wisteria in bloom. The one thing all whispers and rumors seem to agree on is that her prices are fair, if not always orthodox, and it is the one thing they seem to get right: as her latest customer, you can confirm that the sense of purpose she managed to give you was more than a proper exchange for your heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took slightly longer than anticipated i was in a self-induced existential crisis because of evangelion  
> anyway!!! thank you everyone for your support, it really does mean a lot <3  
> this was very fun to write! i hope to do more things like this in the future~

**Author's Note:**

> this is a vaguely xxxHOLiC au and i'm so sorry  
> not as sorry as i could be probably but still pretty sorry


End file.
